The Little Red Hen
by perrilloux.bf68
Summary: Anger may empty a table, but bitterness spoils the dinner. [One Shot]


**The Little Red Hen**

* * *

The knife gleamed, merely glistened as the dining room table harshly shuttered. Its leg beams, sturdy and simple, rumbled knocking against the four empty chairs nestled around its rippling tablecloth. The red spotted sheet of sheer white cotton trembled, quaking above erupting floorboards that were nailed to a threshold, a threshold to a frame, a frame to a hinge and a hinge to a door that had been slammed shut only moments prior. Actually, it was slammed twice. Twice because it hadn't connected the first time, but that didn't bother her. Not in the slightest.

"Nope. Not at all! They could take that and more, those conniving, selfish, slices of—

"The bread!"

Penny…

"That's Mrs. Penny to you—no, Madame Penny! Madame A. Henrietta Abigail Elizabeth Penny Hen to you, pig snout! You hear that!?"

…stormed to the oven in a slight rush, slight panic and all fury in just enough time to pop the perfectly penny brown loaf out of her oven. She was careful to not burn her feathers, in spite of her anger. It just simmered under them like fifty children huddled beneath a rainbow colored parachute or a rainbow colored parachute bubbling beneath fifty foam balls forcing them to fly. Fly and soar and die in the ceiling rafters, like an exiled floating blueberry fated to never come down again.

Penny Hen snorted. The pan was shaking—no simmering—and so was that bubble of well baked goodness made of sunflower seeds and wheat. The loaf simply bounced—up, down, side to side—nearly forced to fly and soar and die on the floor. The pan cluttered on the table scarcely surviving the short, yet dangerous little journey from the oven to its cottoned surface. Only for a brief moment did the mother hen take the time to enjoy the warm wholesome aroma wafting from the treasure cooling in front of her, the perfume that had also (unfortunately) drew those good for nothing ingrates to her door.

"I can't believe they had the gall!"

Madame A. Henrietta Abigail Elizabeth Penny Hen, Penny Hen to her friends…

"Who weren't them, no siree!"

…snatched up the gleaming glistening knife next to the tray on the table and instantly began hacking through the center of the loaf. Her mind raced, thinking not on the thin slender well serrated edge of that perfect chef's guaranteed to last a hundred years and one beyond dangerous don't try this at home shredder trip of a bread knife, but on the three friends—excuse me, ex-friends—who were supposed to help her when she needed it.

"That's what friends do, right? Right?! Those Ingrates!"

She had asked them three times, the toad, the duck and that bore of a pig, to help make the bread she was currently cutting and each time they all said no.

The toad, the first time, when it was time to plant the seed, said he was busy that weekend. He was going to go with a few of his he-he-_CROAK_-herring friends to ski in the Alps that fall.

"That was such a lie!"

Herrings eat frogs, even she knew that.

When it was time to harvest, he said that his skiing trip made all his slime dry up and that he needed to take some time off to re-re-_CROAK_-wet his skin at the local salon, Pond Scum Incorporated. She rolled her eyes. Pond Scum was a saloon, not a salon. She waddled by it every night on her way home from her job at the Chicken Coop. How dumb did he think she was?

And then…

"You wouldn't believe this!"

…the third time, when she was ready to mill the flour…

"You know what he said?"

She sawed and sawed and sawed with breadcrumbs popping to the sound of the hum of her blade and the sigh on her lips.

"He said that he couldn't go, because his 'salon' trip made his warts fall off and that he had to go get them re-re-_CROAK_-plastered." She shuttered.

Frogs gave warts not the other way around. He was lying!

1-saw-2-saw-3-saw-4

"How dare he! It's bad enough that he didn't want to help, did he really have to lie about it?"

Henny Penny Abigail Elizabeth slammed the knife on the table and lifted out a perfect slice of bread from the center of the perfect penny brown loaf in front of her. She dropped the slice onto her striking white floral painted china plate scattering breadcrumbs like dandelion seeds in the summer. She plopped down, bawk-_bawk_-_BAWKED_ a prayer then picked up the butter knife resting on its little plate in the center of the table. It was right next to the yellow vase of crimson marigolds, the crystal pitcher of Mrs. Cow's Tempered Skim milk, and a half cup of yellow-white purely granulated tabletop sugarcane. She tapped the silver swoop of the blade on the side of the mellow-yellow butter dish be-mourning her ruined dinner plans. It would have been perfect.

"But oh no!

"I mean, even the duck said no! And she _always_ said yes. But really…"

She had broken her wing last April and she'd been on the mend ever since. When it was time to plant, she was still in a cast. There was nothing the duck could _quackin'_ do. When it was time to harvest, the cast was gone, but still she was busy testing her _quackin'_ wings in flight physical therapy. And when it was time to mill, the duck had vanished. She'd flown _quackin' _south to catch the last of the winter sun she had missed while staying behind to heal. She only just _quackin'_ returned today, the day Penny Hen finally had a chance to bake the bread she worked all summer to prepare. Penny Hen tapped the knife against the plate…

1… tap… 2… tap… 3… tap… 4

… scooped some butter then stopped. She took a breath then stabbed the knife back into the pudding thick yellow tainted cream. She sighed. Penny Hen changed her mind. She wanted a sandwich.

Penny slammed back her chair, not as hard as before but still hard enough to shake the table. She toddled to the kitchen her tail tipping right, left then right again, crisp and stout like the brisk sharp beat of the knot balancing on top of a metronome's silver slick pendulum set to 125 or higher.

1-2-3-4

1-2-3-4

1-2-3-4

1

Pulling out a tomato, an onion and a head of lettuce from her refrigerator, she barely refrained from snorting as she placed them onto the nearby counter before reaching to grab the chef knife, that long, thick, sliver sharp masterpiece from the knife block sitting casually next to her cutting board. It slid from its place slick and smooth like water sliding across ice. Her beak curled as she moved to think about the pig!

"That good for nothing bore of a—"

1\. She raised the knife then slammed it through an onion not caring if the juice went flying and made her eyes water.

"Stupid bore."

When it was time to plant, all he did was snort at her saying he was too busy for such trivial things.

"Besides," he said. "Don't you know how much time and money and effort is needed to grow wheat? [snort] Who has that time? I don't. Jeeze!"

Penny stopped short wiping a tear.

2\. She slammed her knife through the head of lettuce and relished in the sound of it fraying. When it was time to harvest, she had asked for help again and this time he just laughed at her.

"See what I mean? [snort] A waste of time and money. And how much did you make? That's not enough for even one loaf! You don't need my help."

She seethed.

3\. She tossed the lettuce on the plate she'd retrieved from a nearby cabinet then moved to slice through the tomatoes thinking about his last rejection. When it was time to mill, he had said nothing, just glared.

"Can't you do it on your own? [snort, snort, sniff]"

The tomato bled, its juice seeping into her feathers dyeing their brilliant orange pink and red.

Didn't he know how that made her feel?

Penny sighed once more adding the mutilated tomatoes to the plate before meandering to the empty table. With the crystal white dish balanced hazardously upon her damp slick feathers, she skirted the three vacant chairs nestled beneath the red spotted tablecloth then slid clumsily into the fourth chair—her chair—while setting the plate next to the cow shaped salt and pepper shakers and her crimson bouquet of freshly cut marigolds. She bawk-_bawk_-_BAWKED_ a prayer then started to make her sandwich. Readjusting the bread slice on the bottom first, she then added to her dinner plate four slices of onion, three sheets of freshly frayed lettuce, two large piles of tomatoes and one other fluffy slice of her homemade loaf of sunflowers seeds and wh-wh-BAWK!

She frowned. She needed another slice. In frustration, Penny Hen stood back up, picking up that sharp unforgivingly serrated blade of a bread knife and began hacking once more through the not so perfect loaf for the not so perfect dinner she was having at her empty not so perfect little table. She sniffled as she reencountered what happened moments before.

"The gall."

Those three selfish conniving ingrates had smelled the bread when it was baking and rushed over to see if they could get a bite.

The toad had said, "Wow, that sure smells croak-_croak_-_CROAKING_!"

The bird, who had just landed, _quackin' _quacked an agreement. "Oh yes, it makes my mouth water. May we have some?"

To which the pig then promptly snorted, "See? [snort] Didn't I say that was a good idea? Let's cut the loaf already. I can see it from here and it looks marvelous. [snort, snort, sniff]"

She had seen red, she thought sawing-sawing-sawing.

"How dare they ask for some after they refused to help!"

saw-saw-saw

"How dare they want something they did nothing to get."

saw-saw-saw.

"How dare he take the credit after he had discouraged me to quit from the very beginning! Don't they know how it feels?"

Saw

"Well now they do!"

Saw

"I showed them!"

Saw

"They can't have any!"

Saw

"I will never—

"BAWK!"

Anita Henrietta Abigail Elizabeth Penny Hen looked down to find feathers covering the bread tangling in with the knife. Blood and pain drizzled slowly splattering like paint upon its perfect penny brown crust until it nearly matched the pattern of the tablecloth nestled beneath its silver pan. She nearly cried. The bread was ruined as was her dinner. She plopped down at the table, snatched up a napkin and stared at the empty chairs counting them as the clock on the wall ticked on and on and on again.

1-tick-2-tick-3-tick-4

She wrapped her cut before getting up and going to bed.

She would never make bread again.

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**Thank you for reading! - Calla**


End file.
